


From a Tree to an Apology

by Charity Layne (JestaFairyOfPranks)



Series: Random One-Shots [3]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Acceptance, Anger, Azran Legacy Spoilers, Bargaining, Denial, Depression, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Poetic, Trauma, des needs a hug, hes lost so much, how descole was made, im so sorry, its really sad, not really - Freeform, poetic and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JestaFairyOfPranks/pseuds/Charity%20Layne
Summary: Desmond Sycamore couldn’t bear it.His wife.His daughter.Dead.He had to do something.But what?
Relationships: Desmond Sycamore & Desmond Sycamore's Daughter & Desmond Sycamore's Wife, Desmond Sycamore/Desmond Sycamore's Wife
Series: Random One-Shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963114
Kudos: 14





	From a Tree to an Apology

I was all alone for the second time in my life. Well, Raymond was there, but that wasn’t exactly the same. I was trapped in the cage that was my own head. My anger trying to escape its prison and infiltrate my rational thoughts. My own home wasn’t safe anymore. My own  _ brain  _ was corrupted by the sight of death. 

Grief.

That is what I felt. What I still feel from time to time.

Grief.

The tragedy of the mind in five, hellish acts. 

Denial.

A fool’s last hope. 

The only thing to cling on to after all has been said and done.

_ This must be a joke. _

_ There has to be a trick to this. _

_ Nobody would commit such vile acts, therefore it cannot be. _

She is surely faking, as it is impossible for her to have died. 

She clearly is just playing along. Waiting for the right moment to get back up and strike.

But deep down inside, I knew it.

I knew she was taken from me.

I knew there was no chance of reversal.

For death gives no special treatment.

It does not see love. It does not see Hope. All it sees is someone’s time running out.

After all, once an hourglass is turned, the sands of life will begin to fall. And once it’s empty, it is turned again for the next soul.

I selfishly hoped that she would live for me.

That I alone could break the cycle and give her more time. But death is a cruel mistress who cares not of your intentions.

Anger.

A word filled with meaning just waiting to be poured out into the world.

The simplicity of it is startling.

How can such a common word hold so much emotion?

Why have we entrusted such an ordinary word with all this meaning?

Why does this word, out of all other words, present itself after all I have suffered through?

Why does anger make me stronger?

Why does anger make me fight?

Why does anger make me stand back up, and why won’t it let me die?

The feeling of rage is blinding. I see only the end.

I don’t see what I will affect, only the finished product.

Anger is like a play where you know the ending. Once you figure out what happens, the rest is meaningless. All that happens between beginning and resolution matters not. The finale is all that you care about. 

Rage is capable of wonders, but is unable to see consequences.

Bargaining.

Halfway through this Hell on Earth, I start to question everything.

What if I had just turned myself in?

What if I had sacrificed myself instead?

What if I had just let it go, and focused more on my family?

All the ‘What if’s’ circle through my brain.

It’s all my fault.

Her death.

My fault.

I could have stopped it.

If only I had stopped it!

Her blood is on my hands.

She is dead.

All because of me.

And Desmond Sycamore.

Desmond Sycamore, the name was like poison on my tongue.

I refuse to let him live.

It is because of him that she’s dead.

His foolishness.

His idiodic “pity”.

His “remorse”.

His “morals”.

If he had been stronger.

Been better.

She would be here.

Depression.

That’s selling it far too short, but how does one describe the heart’s sudden and severe desire to just stop itself? It’s not something that can be easily explained.

Every hour, every  _ minute,  _ every  **_Second_ ** without her felt like an eternity in a cold, empty,  _ lifeless _ void. Every time I tried to wrench my thoughts back to reality, they just clutched harder to the memories of her.

Her luscious brown hair that was soft to the touch.

Her Crimson eyes that blazed like a fire.

Her alluring face in that amiable smile that would always set my heart a flutter as if I were gazing upon it for the first time.

All that was gone now.

All that was left of her eternal beauty was photographs. Single snapshots of happy moments. Memories made. Mementos of travels. If a picture is supposed to remind one of happy times, why is it that whenever I look at my darling’s face in pictures it brings me tears?

I dare not utter her name.

It died with her.

I will spare her untarnished soul the cruelty of being uttered by these undeserving lips. 

I refuse to even think of her name.

She deserved better than a sorry excuse for a husband and father. 

I have failed.

So I will never try again.

Acceptance.

No, that doesn’t sound right.

I know she’s gone.

I know there’s no way to bring her back.

But I  _ refuse  _ to accept it.

I plan my next move. 

I prepare myself for my next attack.

I create an alter ego.

Desmond Sycamore is no more.

I am reborn.

A new man.

A new goal.

A new... life.

“Je suis désolé.

My name…

Is Jean Descole.”

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out kinda poetic.  
> I’m sorry if it made you cry.  
> The end says “I’m sorry”


End file.
